you don't have to stay
by Annerb
Summary: They still refer to her as 'Harry Potter's girl' sometimes. Eleven-year-old her would be ecstatic. Twenty-one-year-old her is far less enthused. (Harry/Ginny)


Ginny navigates her way across the crowded room. The ballroom is rather impressive, with candles floating up in the high ceiling, rich fabrics draping the walls. The most powerful and famous figures in the sporting world are here—players, coaches, owners, and journalists alike.

Ludo Bagman currently holds court over by an ice sculpture off a Bludger chasing a Snitch in an endless game of tag. A shrewd-looking group of owners in expensive robes sit around a table eyeing each other and no doubt brokering deals what will shape the next season of Quidditch.

For now, the season is at an end, and Ginny is glad of it, looking forward to a little break from her grueling training schedule. Having made her rounds of the room, saying hello to teammates and friends, doing her duty to schmooze politely with various important contacts, she is now in search of far more pleasant company.

She's nearly across the room when she's stopped by a hand on her arm. "Miss Weasley," the wizard says, drawing her name out, his finger trailing down her bare arm.

Ginny forces a smile on her face, though she doubts it's exactly friendly. "Mr. Tate," she says, turning to look at the wizard only a few years younger than herself dressed in robes that are no doubt more expensive than the entire value of the Burrow. "How is your father?"

An innocent question on the surface, but she knows how much he hates to be reminded that his father is the one who owns the Appleby Arrows and not him. He's always enjoyed pretending he's more important than he really is.

Sure enough, his smile slips, but then so do his eyes. As in, he's staring at her chest rather than her face. She can't really blame him all that much; her dress is rather spectacular.

"Father does well as always. He trusts me to keep things,"—his hand slips lower down her arm—"running smoothly."

"Hmm," Ginny says, moving out of reach and suppressing a shudder of revulsion. "And does he know that you're out after curfew?"

His face flushes, and she knows she shouldn't have said it, but he bloody well shouldn't have touched her either. There could be consequences, pissing this particular arsehole off, but somehow she just doesn't care. She's a Harpy, not an Arrow, and any goodwill she needs from him for national play and recognition just isn't worth it.

He's looking angry now, but before he can say anything that will prod her into even less subtle retaliation, Ginny casually drops in, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find my boyfriend."

This has the intended effect, everyone knowing just who Ginny Weasley, upcoming Chaser for the Harpies, is romantically involved with, thanks to the invasive media. Mr. Tate straightens up a bit, the red flush of anger fading, leaving him looking a little pale.

He tugs at the edge of his collar. "Oh, is he here? I hadn't realized." He glances around, looking equally eager and horrified.

Ginny somehow manages not to roll her eyes, instead gesturing vaguely off in the direction she'd been heading before he stopped her. She doesn't actually know where Harry is at the moment, but he's definitely here somewhere.

"Well," Mr. Tate says, recovering his slimy composure. "Do say hello for me."

 _No chance of that_ , Ginny thinks, hating herself for using Harry's name this way. He wouldn't mind, she knows. But _she_ minds. Being forced into stooping that low just makes her hate the bloody spoiled brat even more.

She bites back another parting shot encouraging him to ask for some warm milk at the bar, instead resuming her trek across the crowded ballroom. See? She's learning tact. She's like a real grown up and everything.

She finally locates Harry at the far side of the room. He's retreated so his back is pressed against the wall, his arms crossed formidably over his chest. It's working too, to judge from the pocket of space around him. People are clearly too intimidated to approach.

He isn't dressed in the thick wool and leather of his Auror uniform tonight, rather in simply and elegantly cut black dress robes, but he still radiates the feeling that he is on duty, his eyes narrowed to slits as he surveys the room with an air of bored indifference.

He's not on duty, of course, but rather here as her plus one. Ginny recognizes his pose as the 'I'm stuck out in public at a social event and really really hate it' posture. Meaning that he has his back pressed against the wall not so much to keep from getting snuck up on by a dark wizard as to protect his bum from getting grabbed. Again. She's pretty sure Marlena's gotten him twice this evening already.

Ginny can feel the moment his attention shifts to her as she nears, even as his posture doesn't change in the slightest.

Having just returned from a long mission somewhere Merlin knows where, Ginny assumes he's exhausted. Not to mention not keen to share her with an entire room full of people.

There are definitely other places she would rather be with him right now.

"Having fun?" she asks as she steps up next to him.

"Loads," he says, voice dry.

"Well," Ginny says, "neither of us have hexed anyone yet, so I think we should take that as a win."

He lets out a derisive snort. "Oh, I'm making a list." His eyes trail down her arm, unerringly taking the same path Mr. Tate's hand had taken, and she knows he didn't miss a moment of that little interaction.

"We'll have to compare lists later," she says lightly. "No need to double up on anyone."

His face contorts with what she realizes is an attempt to hold back a yawn. She eyes his face, noting how exhausted he looks. He hasn't bothered to shave, but she isn't sure how much of that is laziness and how much is an attempt to look even less approachable.

"You don't have to stay," she says.

His head doesn't turn, just his eyes latching onto her face with a mix of incredulity and anger. "Not bloody likely."

"I doubt Mr. Tate will try anything again, not the way I'm brazenly throwing your good name around."

Harry's eyes seem to flash with something that could be satisfaction. "I'm not worried about Mr. Tate."

"Ah, yes," Ginny says, her voice coming out surprisingly bitter. "No one wants to risk incurring Harry Potter's wrath."

They still refer to her as 'Harry Potter's girl' in the papers sometimes. Eleven-year-old her would be ecstatic. Twenty-one-year-old her is far less enthused, wondering if she'll ever be seen as anything other than an appendage.

Harry leans slightly towards her. "If they had half a brain, they'd be more afraid of your wrath."

Against her will, Ginny feels her lips twitch into a smile. "So then why hang about when you're clearly miserable if not to protect me from handsy arseholes?"

His gaze sweeps her body, having quite the opposite effect as Mr. Tate's attention. "You mean besides getting to see you in this dress?"

She slides him a look. He's seen her in far less, and will again very soon if she has anything to say about it. "You know you can have a fashion show whenever you like. A private one." She considers him. "Or are you enjoying looking but not being able to touch?"

He finally unfolds enough to wrap an arm around her waist, his fingers unerringly finding the small cutout at her lower back. "But you've made touching so convenient," he says, voice lowering.

Harry isn't one for public displays, but that doesn't stop her traitorous heart from speeding up in anticipation. They've been apart for more than a week, after all.

He draws her closer, his head lowering to her ear. "I'm exhausted and would definitely rather be alone with you anywhere else on the planet and am probably very close to causing a scene if one more person pisses me off."

Ginny can't stop her eyes from closing at the little thrill she feels at his closeness. "My original statement stands. You don't have to stay."

"I'm not going anywhere until I see my girlfriend rightly crowned best Quidditch player of all time."

"I'm only up for breakout star of the season," she corrects with a laugh, "and I may not win."

Harry pulls his arm away, and Ginny tries not to make a sound of protest even though she knows this is hardly the location for more. He settles back into his crossed-arm pose of brooding. "You damn well will."

His certainty fills her chest with warmth.

He flicks his hand, making a little shooing motion. "Now go away and dazzle the crowd while I remain taciturn and off-putting."

She looks at him fondly. "Okay," she agrees. "But you know this act is only going to work for so long."

His composure breaks just long enough for him to smile at her, the real Harry shining through for a moment. "Just so long as it works well enough to keep my bum safe until you win."

She can't help herself, stepping up against him and kissing him solidly, letting her body press fully against his. As much as she wants to, especially when Harry's hands find her waist, she doesn't linger, stepping back away before she can embarrass him.

Harry looks endearingly befuddled by her surprise attack despite the brevity of her attentions, one of his hands still stubbornly on her hip.

"Careful, love," she says with a smile, "your disguise is slipping."

He scowls, pulling his arms back into his chest. "We're having words about this later," he says, trying to sound stern but the warm sparkle in his eyes completely ruining the effect.

"Oh, I was hoping for far more than words," she says, giving him a wink.

He makes a low sound of protest. "Go away," he says.

She laughs. "You know you'll miss me."

"You have no idea," he mutters.

She takes mercy on him then, strolling back out into the crowd, but not without looking back at him. Harry has once again settled back into his defensive pose, already glaring at someone who has dared to sidle closer.

She's glad he's staying, even if she wishes he didn't have to submit himself to so much scrutiny. One would think his hero status might fade over time, but people seem as interested in him as ever, much to his chagrin.

Fortunately the period for mingling ends soon after she leaves him, an emcee stepping up on the podium and beginning the official ceremony. The trophy for the league champions will be handed out—the damn Magpies already look smug and pleased with themselves. But there are a few other awards, like most valuable player, standout defense, most impressive snitch catch, and others. Including breakout star, which Ginny is up for.

She's honored, of course, but also knows she's worked her arse off for years to earn her starter position, and then to demonstrate that she deserves to be taken seriously. Her nomination goes a long way towards acknowledging that.

When they call her name out to announce that she's won, she feels an intense beat of satisfaction, of having proven herself. She takes the stage—managing not to trip or anything—aware of her teammates slapping her on the arm, of people clapping for her.

She takes the crystal trophy from the emcee and looks out over the crowd, and there Harry is in the thick of it, no longer hiding in the corner. He has his fingers in his mouth, whistling a high pitch that rises far above the polite applause of the crowd as he bounces on his heels.

Unfortunately the emcee notices Harry too. "It seems we have an esteemed guest with us in the crowd tonight," he gushes.

Everyone not already staring at him turns to look, and Harry's beginning to look a little sheepish, like he definitely didn't mean to draw that much attention to himself but couldn't help it in his excitement.

It occurs to Ginny as she watches him that Harry's brooding act wasn't just about hating parties and attention. It was about not stealing her thunder. He stood huddled up against that wall so she could talk to people without being Harry Potter's girl.

She feels her throat close up with how much she loves this ridiculous, wonderful man.

"Of course," the emcee says, "he is a man who needs no introduction."

"I should hope not," Ginny says with just enough asperity to make the crowd laugh. "He may have collected a lot of titles over the years, but I think we can all agree which one is the most important."

"And which is that?" the emcee asks with a smile, apparently content that he knows the answer. The Chosen One. The savior. The hero. The Boy Who Lives.

Ginny doesn't look away from Harry's smiling face. "Ginny Weasley's number one fan."

A few people in the crowd look horrified, thinking she's making light of his accomplishments, no doubt, but Harry just nods enthusiastically in agreement, nudging the guy next to him and saying, "That's right."

The emcee clears his throat. "Well, okay. Uh, shall we talk about your greatest moments on the pitch this season?"

Ginny smiles. "Sounds like a plan."


End file.
